


John Dies at the End

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Horror, POV Sam Winchester, Psychic Sam, Psychological Horror, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: If John can't save Sam, then he's going to have to kill him--and Sam, with the dubious gift of demonic foresight, already knows which road John's chosen. Dean, though? Dean's the swing vote.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [artwork!](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/233099) by quickreaver. 



> A special thank you to **jaimeykay** , **sistabro** , and **vie_dangerouse** , who gave me the idea for this fic a truly embarrassing number of years ago. Let's just say there's now twice as much canon to defile than there was then. XD And most profuse thanks to **caranfindel** and **amberdreams** for their thoughtful beta-reading, and to **quickreaver** for her tremendously atmospheric and delightfully creepy artwork. Go team!!

"Before he... before, did he say anything to you? About anything?" 

(2x02 "Everybody Loves a Clown")

 

 

Sam wakes to the hum of _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ on the TV. The whole house smells like coffee.

Then Sam remembers what he has to do today.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 1:** Don't torture yourself by living your past like a VHS--rinsing, rewinding, repeating. It's unbecoming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's cold for April. But then, this isn't California anymore.

Sam remembers the solid press of Dean's hands into his chest that night in Palo Alto, and the way he'd sprouted chill rivulets--California slowly trickling away, even then. He remembers the dig of Jess's french tips at his ankles, only moments before. Pretty toes, in sandal weather.

Now, South Dakota drops a thunderstorm on them. The pyre's found its heart, though; the rain doesn't douse, just hisses and pops.

They were supposed to get away: They had the Colt. They'd saved John from Meg. They'd saved John from Yellow-Eyes, too--Sam hadn't shot John dead, the demon had fled; they were all in the car; they'd all made it out; they were all breathing.

They'd been so close.

Did he say anything? Sam asks. His question is directed at the pyre, its dry heat like a rash against his lips.

He keeps replaying the crash in his head. Floodlights, tearing metal, adrenaline pain like he's never felt coupled with pain that, too often, he has--his side slams into the Impala, ribs snapping, organs jangling.

They'd been so fucking close.

About anything? Before he-- Sam chokes.

I mean, to you. Did he--

And John says, Dean never woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a window of time after Dean's death where Sam would not have hesitated, would have done anything, to walk out those doors and hit the road with John. There's a fight song in his veins and he will go any distance, forge any alliance, to make his world feel right again. He doesn't care what it will take.

But when Dean's death becomes a bureaucratic pain in the ass, the fight song wanes. The stupidity suppresses.

Death is a lot of paperwork. And wherever John was during this window, it was not with Sam. Sam crosses all those Ts alone. Every one of them feels like a crucifixion. 

After the doctors file away and their lives gear up towards things beyond the traffic vic in 324, deceased, Sam brings out the ouija board again. He needs--something. He needs anything. He mumbles something about a prayer and 'kind of a pagan thing' and gets the room to himself for five minutes. (After that, the nurse says, they would have to come back for the body. They need the space.)

Sam's only just put his hands to the planchette when he hears a voice--from behind him, not beyond the Veil.

Ouija board's crap, John says. You know that.

That's what you said about vampires, Sam snaps. This worked before.

He's gone now, says John, softer.

It's done.

Sam waits for the justification then, the backpedaling, an apology. Some recognition of how wrong John had been, how wrong the world is, how wrong it is that Dean should die--that something, somewhere, was wrong. That something had gone wrong, and Sam was not alone in feeling it.

Instead, John steps out of the room, and that's the last Sam sees of him for some time. 

John doesn't return for their Xeroxed paperwork (for your personal use, says the nurse, as though they are the pages of a useful enchantment). Bobby makes no mention of him when he arrives at the hospital, pulled up to a red zone. 

It's dark out and Dean has burned almost to bone and cinders when John returns from his oblivion. Dean has been dead for thirty-six hours, and Sam's window has long since passed.

Does Bobby know you're here? Sam asks.

I got permission, John answers.

Sam chuffs. Permission--as though this were the kind of thing with a guest list and a coat check.

He almost wishes it were.

Dean's is actually the first funeral Sam has ever attended. Strange, but true; he's buried more bodies than he's honored. Mary hadn't had one and Jessica's, he'd missed. (Got dressed for it. Was in town for it. Still missed it.)

If there were any deaths in between, Sam's not aware of them. Up until that striga case, he'd thought his father had a perfect track record. 

Did he say anything to you? Sam asks finally, chill April having settled into him. His voice creaks as though it's been weeks since he's spoken, and not hours. It feels like weeks.

Sam stares into the flames, willing them to extinguish; to release him; to let him go inside, pass out, and never wake again. He stares into the flames, willing them to never die.

Then April skips over the roofs of bent cars and broken windshields and, with a gust, it puts Dean out.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 2:** Seriously, don't do it. Reruns-- _terrible_ idea.

 

\--

 

_Did he say anything to you?_

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 3:** And don't scowl when I say I told you so.

 

\--

 

It's Bobby who shoves him into the truck in the end, shotgun to John. He'd been trying to get through to Sam near a week, make something spark. Sam just fixes the past in the truck's rearview. 

The way Bobby had gone about his attempted resuscitation makes Sam think Bobby's dragged Dean off the floor a time or two. But Sam's not Dean.

Maybe if Dean were here, they'd have the comparison to help them remember that. Because suddenly he's in a bar full of bodies, badly washed. It smells like smoke, sweat, blood. This is not how Sam prefers to mourn.

Pulled your stitches, John says, sound lost in an eruption of raucous bravado a few chairs away. He taps his temple.

Sam touches his own, feels wetness.

John! exclaims a woman. She's punching knuckles with the loud guys, rag launched over her shoulder. Big brown hair, bigger smile. Sam would say bartender, but no one hustles like that for $2 an hour, not even for better tips. Owner, he thinks.

Ellen, says John. There's pain in the word. For a moment Sam's furious, because whatever he's done to Ellen, it can't possibly match what he's done to Sam. But here they are, in some crap-ass roadhouse, like any other day. Like it didn't even matter.

You know better'n to come in at happy hour, Ellen admonishes, still shouting. Just 'cause I have something juicy to tell you don't mean you don't have to wait your damn turn! Jo'll fix your drinks, though. You remember Jo.

Something prods Sam's shoulder. He starts, and there's a girl behind him, shoving a First Aid kit into his hands.

You're gonna wanna talk to Ash, not me, Jo says to John, sweet as can be. But she's got a knife rolling across her knuckles and a look in her eyes like she wants to throw it hard and fast.

John's not looking, though.

As he slides from his stool he whispers to Sam, _Play nice._

Play nice? Sam scoffs.

It makes him wonder whether John's forgotten they're not actually strangers; that they actually did have eighteen years of history together, and every single one of those years is screaming at Sam, _John Winchester never plays nice._ And chasing tail in dive bars isn't exactly Sam's style.

But maybe the only thing John knows about Sam is that Jess is was blonde. And so's this random girl.

Jo, Sam corrects. Her name is Jo. Play nice.

My mom said you were at Stanford, Jo says, not sweetly. She's learned how to talk to this kind of crowd, this crowd Sam is now a part of, and she doesn't play games, nice or not. 

You must be pretty smart, then, she says. 

Um, says Sam.

Good, says Jo. She's still staring past him, shooting daggers at John's back. She's pissed as hell about something, that's for sure. 

Maybe she knows about Dean, Sam thinks. Hell, for all Sam knows, she knew Dean. She apparently knows plenty about _him._

Jo puts a drink in front of him and hunkers down conspiratorily. For a moment Sam thinks they're about to mount a coup: Drag John into a back alley and put her little knife through his eyes. The drink's certainly strong enough--tastes like water, but Sam's only three sips in when he starts feeling it. Girl's a pro. 

I'm not-- Sam starts. He's not going to kill his father. 

He's not a fucking lunatic.

I just gotta ask you one question, Jo insists. 

One. Come on.

Reluctantly, Sam acquiesces. 

What's it gonna be? John's sleep schedule? GPS log-in on his phone? (Ha.) Drink of choice? Height, weight, blood pressure?

Jo leans toward him, so close her hair--blonde, it's blonde--kisses his lips. 

If your TA says you're not allowed to write a 5-Paragraph Essay, then what the fuck do you write? she whispers urgently.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 4:** Don't project. Just because you're crazy doesn't mean everyone else is, too.

 

\--

 

Pull him down. Slit his throat with a tiny little knife. Carve letters. Send a message.

Go ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

So, you're a college girl, says Sam. He's not sure how he got her so wrong.

It's hard to get the words out. He's still thinking about knives.

It had just felt real--that there'd be people out there in the world who'd want to kill John Winchester. Of course there'd be. People he'd hurt, or disappointed in the deepest possible way. 

Maybe Sam's just bracing himself, waiting for enlistment. He's sure they'll find him eventually; the demon would have killed him long ago, if that weren't the case. He wouldn't have let power go running lose in Sam's head. Because that's what the visions are, aren't they--a power.

Sam looks at Jo, definitely not killing anyone, definitely not planning to, and rethinks his angle.

Maybe he won't be enlisted. Maybe he's already commander-in-chief.

The thought makes Sam feel sweaty and short of breath. 

Jo seems to mistake this for horniness.

Road legal and everything, she replies, a sardonic cant to her tongue. I'm over eighteen, if that's what you're wondering.

She's printing neatly in a spiral-bound, squinting in the dim bar light. The noise doesn't seem to bother her. The only time he's seen her break character since he and John walked in that door was when he'd offered up his laptop to her, at which point she'd succumbed to minor panic; Jo doesn't do computers. 

Sam really wishes everyone would stop reminding him of Dean. Or he wishes--

Sam wishes everyone else were a little bit deader than Dean. He'd choose Dean over anyone here. He'd damn them all.

Sam tries to shake the thought. He says, I guess that must've been an adjustment--the whole college scene, I mean. I know it was for me. 

Jo replies, Not really. I know a lot of the people and all, running around with 'em since ever. They're all going back to their farms after, of course; but you can make a lot more cash if you got a degree says you know something about hydrology. There'll be a few nurses. Maybe even a vet, if she can get that scholarship. Good crowd; like family. 

Jo keeps writing.

I'm beginning to think I picked the wrong school, Sam admits, but Jo ignores him.

Are you sure I can just write 'I argue that…'?

Yes, I'm sure, says Sam. But your mom--obviously she knows something about hunting, if she called my dad to--

This time Jo cuts him off, goes stone cold. She hisses, disjunctively sultry: Honey, there's a lot of people in this house right now. Don't make me remind you that you're mostly not among friends. So do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up.

Jo picks up her notebook and dances away. Sam expects instructions for a rendezvous, some kind of clue, but there's nothing before him but an empty table.

A thick hand claps him on the shoulder. 

My sister was like that, too, says its owner.

Sam looks up.

Gordon Walker, says, well, Gordon Walker. Apparently. 

Sam opens his mouth to reply. 

Oh, no need, says Gordon. 

I know who you are, Sam Winchester.

 

\--

 

You are not among friends, Sam thinks. 

You are not among friends   
you are not among friends   
you are not among friends.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 5:** Choose your enemies wisely. Choose your friends even wiser.

 

\--

 

John's hot on some vampire nest the next state over, which figures. 

Something to do with the Colt, Sam assumes; John won't even sleep in the roadhouse. Slept like the dead in the back of the truck, lockbox for a pillow, Colt so close it could've heard John's heartbeat.

(Sam would think that was pathetic, but Sam slept in a bunkroom in a too-small cot, joined on either side by a nameless drunk and Gordon Walker. When he got out of bed, springs straining, Gordon asked, a voice from the darkness, _Did you know you talk in your sleep?_

Sam shook his boots out--no spiders--and said nothing.

Entire soliloquies, said Gordon. You must lead an interesting life, Sam Winchester.)

I don't care about vampires. I've never even seen _Buffy_ , Jo says, as she lets Sam's bowl down with a clatter. It's corn flakes swimming in translucent nonfat milk. 

What about you, Sam? You gonna fight over this nest, too?

Can I fight for a different breakfast cereal? Sam responds, attempting levity.

Jo frowns. She says, Look, I know you're-- With what happened to your brother and all. It's okay; you don't have to do the whole clown dance.

Sam hadn't realized his joke was that bad. 

He'd actually forgotten Dean was gone, for a moment--there hadn't been that crushing dread in the pit of his stomach. Dread about what, Sam's not sure; Dean's already dead. Long dead.

Sam capsizes a few corn flakes with his spoon. He won't be eating now.

You didn't answer about the vampires, Jo reminds him.

Sam doesn't give a damn about the vampires. If he thinks about vampires, he'll think about Dean.

He's already thinking about Dean.

We've put down a nest before, Sam says casually. 

You and your dad?

I guess, says Sam.

You hunt with him often? Jo asks.

Since before I had teeth, Sam answers shortly. But Jo's not fazed.

He keep you safe? she asks. 

The words sound almost hesitant, like doubt's holding them back. 

When it becomes clear that there will, in fact, be a vampire hunt tonight, and John and Sam will, in fact, be going, Ellen calls him over privately.

You probably know, your daddy usually hunts solo, says Ellen, swishing a rag around the bottom of a glass. She regards him seriously, then continues: That don't mean that arrangement was always his choice.

I don't need anyone to defend him to me, Sam replies.

Oh, I'm not defending him, says Ellen, but she doesn't elaborate.

He's probably the best hunter in the whole roadhouse right now, Sam suggests, hoping to prompt a fuller narrative.

Real good hunter. No doubt about it, agrees Ellen, telegraphically. She's not one to fall for tricks.

But she does say this: Sam, I'm gonna tell you this once. Once, and then God help you. You can't go down that road.

Sam nods, sympathetic; but he's not sure how much choice he has in the matter. These days, it seems like most of his roads have already been chosen--and he has the visions to prove it.

Sweetie, listen to me, Ellen says. Her timbre's right at the edge of severe and loving, which makes him miss Dean. 

She says, John Winchester is dangerous to everything and everyone around him. So you leave that alone, you hear me?

And that makes Sam miss Dean more.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 6:** Don't blame _me._

 

\--

 

But would you be upset if I told you Dean wasn't meant to die?

 

\--

 

Yellow-Eyes is smack in front of him.

Right here, right now. 

Sam reaches for the Colt but of course it's not there he tries to back away find cover but his legs won't move he can't even attempt an exorcism he--

Relax, Sam, says Yellow-Eyes. Pull up a chair, eat some popcorn. We're in your head; I can't hurt you, you can't hurt me. Just think of me as your own personal Princess Leia.

You _are_ our only hope, you know, he says, without gravity.

How are you here? Sam asks, guardedly. You've never done that before.

Yellow-Eye smiles.

Because you're getting stronger, Sammy-boy. You're rolling out the red carpet! I'm just here to dust it off before the big event.

Suddenly they're chest to chest. Yellow-Eyes twists him like a corkscrew and points into the distance.

Here's what I mean about Dean, Yellow-Eyes whispers into Sam's ear. The words sting like an infection.

He says, Dean wasn't meant to die--or stay dead, in any case. Now that! That took us by surprise. So if things up in your noggin get a little… _strange_ , you have our sincerest apologies. But really, you can only blame yourself.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Sam rasps. He tries to shout but Yellow-Eyes has a hand at his throat, forcing his vision straight ahead, toward a bunch of trees.

All Yellow-Eyes says is, Watch and learn.

Then he's gone.

There's a reservoir. Far below, Sam can see a girl on the wrong side of the barrier. She's wearing white, and that alone makes Sam want to save her. It's stupid.

She's going to jump.

In the trees, where Yellow-Eyes directed him, there's a man with a rifle. He's too far away to touch, too far to even shout at and be heard, but Sam knows instantly it's Dean. There's just something about the way he moves while he's waiting there, however infinitesimally. There's something about his carry. Sam hasn't felt those cues in too damn long and the sight of them now unthreads him.

Dean! Sam shouts, even though he knows it doesn't matter.

Abruptly, Dean pitches the rifle to his chin and before Sam realizes what's happening the trigger's pulled and Dean is only the force of metal ripping through his skull, bone brain bullet blood shooting a thin jet from the crown of his head. 

Nothing more.

 

\--

 

Sam wakes up on the floor, with a lump on the crown of his head. He hit the nightstand on his way down.

Vision, John asks? He's already lacing his boots at the foot of his bed.

Nightmare, Sam replies sourly. The normal kind. 

Of course, says John, neither credulous nor overtly suspicious. The middle ground feels patronizing.

My brother fucking died; I'm allowed, Sam snaps.

Of course, says John.

They don't speak for another hundred miles. 

 

\--

 

The truck shambles through the pits of the Midwest, empty mines and enclosed, close-quartered farms--land no longer sure what it stands for, or what it would like to become. Agrarian republic or industrial giant? ask these dusty roads, as though they have a choice.

Sam falls asleep and he watches Dean get torn apart by the long, thick claws of some terrible, invisible force.

 

\--

 

When Sam wakes, the weather's Mid-Atlantic, and John won't stop talking about Mary.

All his life, Sam's known nothing of his mother but a few silent photographs and, of course, the nature of her death. For some reason now John's seen fit to change that. They're between the legs of West Virginia, and the entire time, it's Mary, Mary, Mary. Like he's had no time to grieve for her before now.

He doesn't talk about Dean.

And then he still doesn't.

John is halfway through yet another story about virtuous perfect Mary changing belligerent Sam's poopy diapers when Sam loses it.

Sam's not sure what he shouts, exactly, but he knows he doesn't stop. He makes himself an opening and he goes at it for all he's worth. He speaks as fast as that bullet through Dean's head, the claws through his chest, and aims to replicate the carnage. John shouts too, but Sam's not listening. He shouts, he shouts, he shouts.

When they reach a stoplight off the Interstate, John turns and slaps him hard across the face. Sam feels the tickle of skin breaking.

Don't you dare--doubt the presence of my grief, John says, murder soft.

_Don't you dare._

 

\--

 

The spring of their junior year, one of Jess's uncles disappeared in a riptide off the coast of Mexico. Jess was understandably stunned, though Sam knew they hadn't been close. But one of Jess's friends--The Empath--had heard, and felt, and cried, and then came to come and cry with Jess; and Jess comforted her and they'd hugged and it had been stupid.

There's no telling what grief will look like. Sam knows that.

But sometimes he sits next to John and they drive to Baltimore and get ready to hunt some ghosts--not the demon, not anything--and Sam needs proof.

He needs more proof than he's been given.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 7:** Go after what you want. 

 

\--

 

See? Not all my rules are about keeping you in line.

 

\--

 

They don't even get inside the house. This is a testament to the true toilet that is his and John's team spirit, because tonight in Baltimore is the first time in John Winchester's illustrious career of criminality that he's ever been caught. Fingered, sure--but never caught.

Maybe if he hadn't been slapped, Sam wouldn't have thrown that first punch. If he hadn't thrown the first, maybe the second wouldn't have come so easily. But John said something about having learned his lesson, and being sorry, and them needing to focus on the present and not the dead, and Sam decided his father wasn't going to rectify twenty years of shit parenting by letting Dean vanish.

Sam cannot let his brother go without a fight.

And apparently, if you start a brawl in a driveway in suburbia, people call the cops on you. 

This goes double if that driveway was already a crime scene.

They're taken in separate squad cars to separate rooms in the precinct, but in the halls Sam hears an officer ask John if his 'friend' has a history of this sort of abusive behavior, and then Sam wants to kill every goddamn uni in the building. He's not even sure if it's because they're so goddamn wrong, or because maybe they feel more than they realize. 

Sam Winchester is destined for dark things, and even Baltimore knows it.

John, for his part, offers only variations on a theme: That's my son, he's my son. It's fine, it's just my son.

Mr. Bonham, says their lead arresting officer, That's not the question we asked.

Just before Sam steps inside holding, he braces his hands on the doorframe. He feels the cop behind him swing to orange alert. Sam lifts his hands above his head.

I'm not his son, he says.

He says, My name is Sam Winchester. Go ahead--look me up, book me. I don't care. But I am _not_ Mr. Bonham's goddamn son.

It's the first time Sam's seen John in the ballpark of shock.

 

\--

 

This is supposed to be Sam's big break--his dramatic, insane finale. Stanford, would-be '06--Sam Winchester with jail on his very real, very permanent record. Sam Winchester, right where he belongs.

But all Baltimore does is forget about him. Someone holds up a convenience store, shots get fired--and well, this is Baltimore. Things escalate. Some dumb white kid throwing punches had only ever been the least of their problems. One thing leads to the next, and Sam gets forgotten about.

He sits in holding for twenty-six hours before the next shift of officers even realize that he's there.

A uni, about his age, asks sheepishly, Who are you?

Who are you?

What did you do?

 

\--

 

Sam Winchester, what did you do?

 

\--

 

Bent the rules of physics, replies Sam. It happens. He's not talking about the psychic stuff, except maybe he is.

Specifically, right now, he means Newton's Laws. Actions and their equal and opposite reactions. Sam's found himself a piece of space and time where he is so invisible, so alone, that he can't even self-destruct.

_Loser._

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 8:** So figure out what you're going to break instead.

 

\--

 

_Loser!!_

 

\--

 

Another twenty-six hours and Baltimore is a thing of the past. He and John are hunting hellhounds--or their crossroads demon. A doctor died, and an architect. A husband's next; he's going to die because he was afraid of being alone. Because he saw a shot at saving someone he loved, and he took it.

 _You_ are not alone, Sam reminds himself. There's Jo and Ellen, and Bobby, and, well, there's John. But all Sam can think is, _So where was my shot, huh? Where's my fucking shot?_

(Colt in his hands. John and the demon, point-blank. That was his shot.)

You need to pull yourself together, he thinks. You can't just tailspin, bounce around the country like this. You know what's out there in the dark, and you can't let it catch you. You need to be better than this. You need to be stronger than this. 

_And you need to figure out what the fuck you're going to do._

Then Sam watches Evan Hudson split into red streamers, like his skeleton's undressing for the night. Muscle wriggles and arteries overexcite. Bones bend like trampolines, but he doesn't scream. His vocal cords went first. At least his wife's not home, and Sam and John are there to clean him out of the pool. 

Sam doesn't think, doesn't figure. He just does.

 

\--

 

The hellhounds take Dean that night, too--again. Of course they do. This time, Sam sees them catch Dean's boot and put him on the ground, though the blood in the dream is Jo's.

Sam makes himself think, _Whatever._ Whatever, it doesn't matter. He is better than this, and he is stronger than this.

Is that all you've got?! Sam shouts, as the scene goes up in flames.

What are you gonna do? You're gonna kill Dean a hundred times, drive me crazy? Well, newsflash--Dean's fucking dead already. You can't hurt me; and I've had it with your shit.

In the far distance, there's a hill turned to silhouette by low, full moonlight. A man on the hill, with the shovel.

Slowly, his head turns.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam is better than this, and stronger than this. He is. But Sam's still thinking about Evan when he unlocks the door to his motel room, one day later and three states north. John is waiting inside, cell phone on the coverlet beside him.

Oh, says Sam. I forgot. 

He says, I didn't get anything for you.

He reaches into his plastic bag, and there are still two burgers.

I forgot, he says again, his words slipping now from sound and into sketchy whiteness. Like imprints in sand.

He's still thinking about Evan. He's thinking about Evan making that crossroads deal to save his wife.

He's thinking about Evan's wife.

If he goes back outside and opens the door again, maybe Dean will be waiting inside.

John raises his eyebrows. He says, Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.

Sam says, Shut up.

But he drops a burger on John's bed. The second he puts in front of the TV, shrine-like. He's not hungry anymore. He is not stronger than this, and he definitely isn't better. He doesn't know what he's going to do except hurt, and hurt. He drapes himself corpse-like over the empty bed and puts a pillow over his face to block out the light. He listens to the crinkle of aluminum foil as John unwraps the burger.

Dean used to feed you the pickles out of all the burgers, when you were little, John says eventually. Do you remember that?

No, says Sam.

Do you remember the time they were cucumbers? John asks.

No, Sam says again.

John chuckles.

So Sam sighs and sits up, pillow in his lap.

John glances at the burger by the TV, then turns back to Sam. He says, We can share this one.

Sam half-expects John to hand him a wrapper filled with pickles, but it's a whole half of a burger. He wills himself to chew.

Sorry about Baltimore, says Sam.

Sorry about Baltimore, too, John says. The apology sounds foreign to Sam's ears, un-native on John's tongue.

Do you remember calling me your first winter vacation at Stanford? John asks.

Sam shrugs noncommittally.

And I shouted at you? About how I was busy bailing your brother out of jail?

Sam bristles. _My_ brother? he repeats.

You saying he's not? John asks.

Try _your_ son, snaps Sam.

John considers this. Then he says, I'm just trying to get through to you.

Sam sinks the pillow against his chest. He'd stuff it through his emptiness if he could.

Did you know in Baltimore you took a streetlight out? John asks. You tore a few bricks out of the ground.

 _With your mind_ is the unspoken critical detail. And no, Sam hadn't realized. He's surprised John's made it this long without confronting him about that. Or just shooting him in his sleep.

I don't know what you want me to do about that, Sam says simply.

Nothing drastic, ideally, answers John.

So what other options are there? Sam wants to snap.

Then he asks: With Evan, though--is that seriously something demons can do? Bring people back to life? 

(Not that he's thinking about anything drastic.)

So it would seem, says John.

Then he says, We're putting this one in the ground where she belongs, Sam.

Sam says, I know.

I know a white witch who's express mailing us some oil of Abramelin, says John. We'll have to find the acacia. But we'll get the bitch, mark me; and we'll send her back to Hell.

Oil of Abramelin, Sam thinks. 

Oil of Abramelin. Acacia. Six candles. 

Sam at John's bedside, being handed a list. Sam at Bobby's, and the crawl of his face when Bobby told him what sort of ritual that shit was for. _Your son is in there, dying, and you want to summon the demon?_ he'd shouted when he got back to the hospital. 

He'd been empty-handed.

Dad, Sam starts. 

His throat aches. He swallows effortfully then says, In the hospital, when you wanted me to get those--things. Were you trying to-- Would you have tried to--

No, says John.

Did I--? Is it my fault?

No, John says more forcefully. 

_No,_ Sam.

They sit in silence.

John glances at the burger by the TV again.

Finally, Sam speaks.

I guess it'd be pretty shitty to call someone down from Heaven. Especially if it's someone who deserves it.

John says, There is no Heaven. 

I think you're wrong, says Sam.

I'm not, says John.

Yes, Sam says firmly. 

Yes, you are.

 

\--

 

It's been about six hours when Sam cleans up the burger by the TV. John's asleep. 

It's swamp season in Indiana and the lettuce is wilted, cheese pale. The tomato slice has drained white and the bread is soggy. Already decomposing.

Which is what things do, Sam acknowledges--particularly things left out in weather like this. It's just weird to think it had rotted away while he'd been in the room.

 

\--

 

Before he goes to bed, Sam tells himself that he is better than this, and he is stronger than this, and he is not alone. It's him and John. It's the family business. And they have vengeance to exact.

But all that, and the moment his head hits the pillow he still falls straight into a vision. He can't stop it, stave it off. So Sam sits back and waits for Dean to die again.

It goes like this: John has a gun in his hand. 

It's pointed at the floor and the safety is on, but it's more than enough to scare the woman in front of him.

John, says the woman; she knows him. John, she says, looking at the gun. My kid's in the back.

He might want to stay there, is all John says.

It's a storefront--crystals and sage, smudge kits. Potions and serums in fanciful glass vials. There's a devil's trap hidden in the shag rug and holy water in the humidifier. Sam just knows. 

Dean is nowhere to be seen, though. There's no Yellow-Eyes to cue his gaze. This is different--like the old dreams.

Sam's first thought is that this woman is a psychic, just like him. No, her kid--she said she had a kid in the back. And if anyone were going to be prepared for a nursery fire, this is she. She looks like the kind of woman who'd live to tell the tale.

You know why I'm here, Nora, says John, which only confirms Sam's theory. What John thinks he's going to do here remains a mystery. 

This woman--Nora--she's clearly in the business, but she's got white witch wiccan written all over her. She wouldn't know how to summon a demon any more than John does. And Sam can feel the fear in her, all because John has a gun. That's how he knows that she doesn't have the juice. Not for Yellow-Eyes.

But Nora unlocks her cash register and pulls out a slim, strange bottle. Sam's not up on his glassblowing terminology, but even he knows the vial is strikingly odd. Under lock-and-key odd--and this in a shop with more than one jar of Spanish flies.

Who's it for? Nora asks.

John says, without hesitation, My son.

He says, I told you why.

Nora shudders. And for all she's afraid of John, Sam can't help but feel she's more afraid of John's son--whichever one he means. Deep down Sam knows it's him, but maybe this is more of the usual. Maybe it's just another way Dean dies.

It's painless, Nora assures him, and then Sam shudders too. Nora continues, It does evaporate if you hang onto it too long. So don't dilly dally.

 _Dilly dally?_ John repeats. He doesn't believe her.

Obviously, there's a time limit, she says.

Why? John asks. It seems like meaningless red tape. The plot device of fairy tales.

But Nora doesn't shake her head, and she doesn't sympathize. This time, she stands her ground. She says, It's hard to kill a child; most people change their minds. If the poison neutralizes, it helps them forget they ever tried.

It's hard to kill a child, Sam thinks wildly. To kill a--

I'm a white witch, she reminds him. I'm good at my job, and I'm not usually in the business of helping people murder their babies. It's just that right now you have me at gunpoint.

He doesn't, not really; but Sam knows what she means. 

So why do you know the recipe? John asks. It's not really a question; John just likes being right.

Because I believe in assisted suicide, Nora says stiffly. And the courts here don't.

She means, This is not what you are doing. This is not a mercy killing. This I do not condone.

Here, she says. You might want these too.

Nora hands him a film cannister.

What are these? John asks.

Sleeping pills, answers Nora. For him or for you, it doesn't really matter. I've heard it helps.

John turns to leave, but Nora speaks up again.

I heard about your boy, she says. The other one. After the crash.

I'm sorry, she says.

She means, Don't do it. Don't do it _again._

Don't go down this road. 

But in the end, she is afraid of him. White with or not, she can't be this child's savior. 

 

\--

 

It's hard to kill a child. John Winchester will be two for two.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam's eyes snap open. It's dark, all a crepuscular orange-gray; the curtains don't quite block out the flicker of neon or the burn of downtown. A sleepy wheeze issues forth from the bed beside him. Not a Dean sound--his father, it's his father.

His father, not with his gun to a witch. 

Yet.

Sam wonders if John sleeps with a gun under his pillow, like Dean did. He wonders, if John doesn't, did that make Dean bigger and badder, or just more terrified?

Not that it matters. It didn't save Dean.

If this were any other vision, him and Dean would be hitting the road. Making sure it never came to pass. Once upon a time, they'd saved that woman and her six-month old, after all. And right now this vision, whatever it's from, is telling Sam how to save himself. It's telling Sam to save himself.

Shoot him as he sleeps, Sam thinks to himself. You remember what happened with Max Miller: Every time, you waited, and you waited, and you got three people killed.

This is your head's up.

But Sam doesn't even need to cock the gun to know that he can't shoot a man dead in his sleep. And he cannot kill his father. If he could, he would have done it. (And there's that _thought_ again--)

He's already had his chance--dad, demon. If he'd taken the shot then, Dean would still be alive; it'd be him in that bed, it'd be them on this road. It'd be--

Sam's the one who signed those hospital reports. He knows Dean was dead before he hit the ground. Sure, maybe he was breathing, but after what Yellow-Eyes had done, he never would have made it. Semi truck or no.

If he'd killed John then, now it'd be just Sam alone.

It's already Sam alone.

You are better than this, he tells himself. You are stronger than this.

Slowly, Sam sits up in the dark. Hinges at the waist and imagines levitation--small girls in white gowns, hovering above their beds. He wills death on bed springs.

He slides one foot from the sheets to the ground, then the next.

His vision hasn't settled any--dark is dark is dark--so he faces the sound of John's breathing and feels around the dusty edge of the bedside lamp. His fingers crawl downward, clasp plastic. 

John's phone is like a scarab beetle--the kind you're not supposed to touch, unless you want the cave you're in to swallow you.

Sam wonders if John would see him, if he woke--his body a piece of shadow that didn't quite fit in with its surround. Chthonic black against some different and innocent darkness.

John probably wouldn't enjoy this--someone standing over him like that. Sam wonders again if John sleeps with his gun.

He wonders if Dean was scared at all when he came to get Sam at Stanford. Probably not, given his lack of quietude, and the lack of monsters. But how could he possibly know what Sam would do? What if Sam had called the police--and how would Dean know that he wouldn't? they hadn't spoken in years, and they hadn't broken well before that. Or what if Jess had woken, and not Sam? What, would he have taken her hostage? Banked on Sam being able to calm her down? (Did Dean know Sam had never once gotten away with telling Jess to do anything, and definitely not "calm down"?)

A different visitor: What if it had been John in his nursery, and not Mary?

Sam lifts the scarab and backs away, fluid. He feels safer when he doesn't loom. He doesn't like the idea of giving John a reason to kill him, however thinly justified.

He doesn't want to die and let John call it self-defense.

 _Then maybe you shouldn't be psychic,_ he thinks. Maybe he shouldn't have visions.

But there's John with a gun to a witch with a vial and a kid she's willing to protect. She'll help kill Sam to keep her own son safe.

Sam can't just pretend he isn't psychic. He's not some civilian, being burnt at the stake; he can do something about this. He should do something about this. Witches that could tell the future probably never burned.

 _This is how you save yourself,_ he thinks.

Sam retreats backward, silent and unhesitant. He doesn't stop until his back presses against the closet wall, luggage rack digging into his thigh and hangers teasing at his shoulders. He bows his head to fit, and pulls the door almost shut.

(This is, incidentally, the reason so many doors are left just slightly ajar. There is something inside, and it didn't want you to hear the latch click.)

Sam knows the bathroom hinges squeak--closet's as good as he's gonna get.

If John were not his father, and were a little girl instead, maybe John would open his closet and find Sam inside, on fire.

Sam pries John's phone open, and his fingers wash green with liquid crystal light.

He lowers the sound to nearly silent, and hits redial.

The woman on the other end of the line, volume-controlled, sounds like she's speaking from another dimension, or from from across the Veil. She may as well be.

I sent the Oil of Abramelin flat-rate, she says. She says, It should be there in two days. 

She says, I'm not sure how much faster you want me to be, John.

So it's true, then. She's the white witch who's helping them with this crossroads demon. 

When Sam says nothing, doesn't even breathe, she keeps talking (and Sam hears a kettle whistle, and liquid pouring. Whatever timezone she's in, it's late there too. Or early).

About the other thing, she says. 

_John, you're going to have to see me in person._

_I don't send things like that to the post office._

 

\--

 

She's the white witch who's helping John with Sam.

 

\--

 

Sam hangs up.

( _You should have shot him when you had the chance. Heat of the moment, right? That's what you could have told yourself. But now--_ )

He can't pack a bag without John waking; Sam just grabs his own phone from the dresser (and replaces John's--idol switcheroo). He grabs his coat from the ground and slinks from their room in unlaced shoes. He risks the tiny click of deadbolt, latch. The slurp of the door sucking against its weather seal.

He can't take the truck; John will hear it. 

Lightly armed and barely dressed, Sam looks for an alley without cameras.

He needs to boost a car.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 9:** Oh, calm the fuck down.

 

\--

 

He's not sure why he's so nervous. It's not as though he's never run away before. And it's not as though he's never been chased. Sam's put things in the ground eighty times more menacing than one John Winchester. 

But that's the thing--if there were a spell, he'd cast it; a curse, he'd lift it; a demon, he'd exorcise it. But Sam watched John walk through all those witches' safeguards and he knows: This is John, human. This is John, father. John, only. 

And Sam's not sure he can get away this time. Jess is gone--he has no goals to run toward. Dean is gone--Sam has no lifelines. 

He just thinks, My father wants to kill me.

He tries to think of a plan, and it's _My father wants to kill me._

 

my father wants to kill me  
my father wants to kill me  
my father wants to kill me

 

Why that's so powerful, Sam doesn't know; he's been disowned for four years. He'd told himself he'd find a family; he'd make one. That blood alone is not a reason for loyalty. But maybe he'd believed Dean, after all. Maybe he does believe; maybe he can't help it.

_And my father wants to kill me._

So yeah, maybe Sam has a fair idea of why his stomach won't keep shape. Still, his hands are shaking so bad he's muffed Jo's number twice, and he wishes he could be just a little more professional about this.

He owes himself that much.

Sam? Jo's voice crackles over the line, loses its tone, and Sam thanks God. She won't be able to hear how fucked he is.

Sam? Jo repeats, when Sam misses his cue. She says, It's 4AM. What's wrong?

How's your paper coming? Sam asks breathlessly.

Jo sighs. She says, Look, Sam, I'm kinda--on a job right now, so... Did you need something?

Sam pinches hard at the bridge of his nose.

Of course she's busy. Sam's not sure what he's thinking. It's not like people are just waiting around to jump into the middle of his family business, right? Suddenly he feels pulled out of his body, out of his own urgency, and this all feels stupid.

Sam can deal with his own goddamn father.

In the end, he just asks Jo for her school's VPN. He wants to dig up as much as he can about the demon, that's all. And did she have Ash's number?

Ash doesn't have a phone, says Jo. Then she rattles off her log-in info. And she says, Look, if you wanna talk to Ash, I can guarantee you he's at the Roadhouse, so just call my mom. But not at 4AM, Sam--she doesn't even answer _my_ calls at 4AM, so don't you dare.

Sam promises.

He takes a deep breath. Because it's fine, everything's fine. He'll just hole up, do some research, and it will all be fine. It will all be fine.

He's not going to call Ellen. Not at 4AM.

At 4:27AM, he calls Ellen. She answers immediately.

_Jo-bird?_

It's Sam, Sam answers.

Is she with you? Ellen asks. From the staticky rustle on the other end of the line, Sam gathers she's already out of bed and putting clothes on. And fuck, she's just so--ready. Ready to be there for her daughter, and to do whatever it takes to keep her safe. She's so--

Quickly, Sam assures her that it's fine, it's fine, Jo's fine. He just talked to Jo, everything's fine with Jo.

Ellen settles. Then she says, Sam, did something happen to your father?

Sam holds his breath for a moment, because he feels so, so stupid again. Because if he's the one making the call--if he can call anyone at all--then he's okay. Because it's past 4AM and no one's bleeding out and no one's actually being chased and Jesus, Sam, you're okay. You're okay. (But how the fuck is this okay?)

Everything's fine, Sam answers.

Sam, says Ellen with a note of warning.

What if this is all for nothing? Maybe John's not even trying to kill him. Maybe all of that is just insurance for if the demon finds Sam first, and they can't stop him. Frankly, if that's the case, Sam hopes John does have some contingency plans. He'd rather be dead than demonic.

And maybe it was just a dream.

Maybe Sam's just psyching himself out.

He's probably just being a paranoid idiot. He never did pull it together; not after those vamps, or Baltimore, or the hellhounds. Not after Evan's gallbladder, bobbing perfect and unmolested in a sea of pink and bloated tissues. Maybe this is just that mental pit where you end up, and it seems like everyone's out to get you.

But there's that vial, in searing detail, and the clammy tinge to the witch's palms when she sees John's gun. John with the gun. John with the gun, with the vial. And Sam knows the difference between a vision and a dream.

He knows what's coming.

Boy, you need to tell me what's going through that head of yours, says Ellen, and brooks no argument.

Pocket-dial, Sam says swiftly. Sorry; I know it's late. It won't happen again.

Did you pocket-dial me after you also pocket-dialed Jo? And Sam, if you hang up on me, so help me, I'll keep calling you back 'til the sun rises, so save us both the phone bill and spill.

I think--I could use some backup, maybe, says Sam, in a voice smaller than he's ever known himself to be.

Where are you? Ellen asks. And what are you up against?

Lafayette, says Sam. 

Lafayette, Indiana, I mean.

Shit, says Ellen. Only hunter I know who's for sure out that way is Gordon--and don't even think about it, Sam.

She's silent for a moment.

What is it? she asks again. Is it a two-man job, or would you be willing to step down and just let Gordon take it? Does it have your scent?

Well, it's-- 

He pinches the bridge of his nose again and adjusts his perch on his retaining wall. 

I really don't think I should have called you, Sam finishes. 

I'm sorry.

Sam, says Ellen. You listen to me. I need to know if you're okay. Where are you right now?

Sam hesitates, because 'I'm not wearing any socks and right now I'm sitting on a giant cinderblock wall above the car I just stole and I really wish I'd packed a box of ammunition' sounds way worse than it is.

In the end Sam says, I'm with my dad.

 

\--

 

I'm with my _dad_.

 

\--

 

Oh, says Ellen.

Sam feels like a fucking nine-year old, except he's pretty sure nine-year old Sam was a polished sociopath in comparison. Right now he's a mess. He's just never felt this alone before. He's never needed to _not_ feel alone so bad before.

Then he realizes Ellen's still talking at him, and he's said everything's fine, and he's promised that when they're done in Lafayette, they'll swing by. And don't make that a John Winchester promise, all right? Ellen warns.

She says, I'm counting on you, Sam. You come to the Roadhouse, and we'll sort this out. I'm gonna wait to hear from you, okay? I'll be looking out, so don't leave me hanging.

When Ellen's voice and her static go quiet, and Sam's alone in his alley again, he does the math. They're probably seven, maybe eight hours from the Roadhouse right now. That's not so bad.

He could probably make it eight hours, if he had to run.

But Sam can't help thinking that if Dean were alive, and if Dean were here, he'd only have to make it eight seconds--if that.

Yeah, Sam decides. Eight seconds. Dean wouldn't have gotten up on this wall with him. He'd have kept both feet firmly on the ground.

But if Sam lets himself go hazy enough he can almost imagine Dean in the car below him, nursing a coffee, disparaging Sam's life choices, and getting him the fuck out of here.

Or maybe not.

Sam can just as easily imagine Dean insisting they stay. Pushing the family closer and closer together until Sam has one of two choices: Shut up or stop breathing. Dean's kind of a swing vote that way. And without him here, Sam will never know.

Dean, I really need you, Sam says to the darkness. He has Dean's amulet in his pocket, which he'd meant to melt and burn but Bobby had picked from the cool ashes, unmolested.

Sam squeezes it as hard as he can, until the horns threaten to bruise bone.

Dean left too many questions unanswered and fights unfinished. He left their brotherhood wanting. And maybe Sam can fill it with whatever he wants--isolationist self-pity, valorizing grandeur, sappy chick flick love--but the only way he feels it right now is loss.

Dean is gone, he is gone, and Sam is alone.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 10:** Remember what I've told you; because you know, I really feel like you're ignoring my advice. You're going to hurt my feelings.


	6. Chapter 6

Here's a secret: Sam knows Dean's always been a little afraid of him. Sam, after all, had the power to leave him.

Dean's not even a ghost, and his absence still feels vengeful.


	7. Chapter 7

Funny seeing you here, says Gordon Walker.

Sam's still blinking in the shop's bright light. Everything gleams and glows and Sam feels distinctly like he's stumbled out of world.

But maybe that's just what doughnut shops actually are at 5AM.

Ellen told me you were in town, Sam explains.

Thoughtful of you to check in, says Gordon. Is this a brunch date?

Sam takes a seat across from Gordon. He says, You killed your sister.

If it's pointers you want, I think you may have missed your window of opportunity, Gordon replies.

_Why'd you do it?_

I killed a monster, Sam, says Gordon. 

Did she know you were after her? Sam asks.

Gordon says, She knew what she was.

Gordon flags the man behind the counter, and hot doughnut holes and small black coffees appear between them. He hisses as he plops a hole in his mug and his hand catches a bit of the splash.

Are you making a scale? Gordon asks, after he's mastered his confection. 

He clarifies, Of pain, I mean. My-brother's-death-was-not-this-schmuck's-sister's-death-so-I'm-probably-not-that-fucked-up? Are you looking for counterexamples?

No, Sam answers honestly.

Gordon plops another doughnut in his mug. This time he doesn't flinch from the burn.

Sam, he begins. I never met your brother, and he has no reputation to speak of. But I don't need to know who he was to tell you this: He's worth more to you dead.

Sam feels instantly lightheaded with rage. Dean's worth absolutely fucking nothing to him dead.

But Gordon doesn't relent. He says, There's that hole, right? You can feel it. Grabbing at your marrow; it's in you. I know something about your family, Sam; I know about your demon, and I know that you've got a hell of a road ahead of you if you want that revenge. But I can see it in you, Sam--this is your tipping point, and Dean got you there. If you're gonna come out on top of this, this is what you've got. You can't change what happened. So right now, you look at it this way. The logical way: He is worth more to you dead.

Sam doesn't trust himself to take his mug without dropping it. This is, he knows, exactly opposite what Dean said--where revenge lay, and where family did. What the prize really was. But Dean's never been in Sam's shoes like this; he's never lost what Sam has lost. He's never felt hunted; not like this. And he's not here to know what this feels like.

Let go of your sentimentality, Gordon advises. Let go, and do what you have to do. 

It seems dumb, coming from a man with a doughnut in his coffee; but Sam also knows what Gordon is like in the dark. He knows what the man is capable of. And he knows that if he's going to get John before John gets him, Gordon's the kind of man he needs by his side.

Where's your father, anyway? Gordon asks, like a mind-reader.

You could just ask him, Sam suggests. He's not sure how to broach the subject of patricide without also convincing Gordon that Sam's the one he wants to hunt. Frankly, Sam's uncertain he's not already on Gordon's To Do list; Sam knows nothing else is going down in Lafayette tonight.

Gordon smiles. John doesn't exactly talk to the fan club, he says.

Get on his level, Sam thinks. Bond with him. Bond with this… stone-cold fratricidal machine.

He doesn't talk to anyone, Sam says cooly.

Then Sam's phone starts trilling, and John's name flashes blocky and pixelated on the flip screen.

Sam lets it go to voicemail, but the damage is done.

Gordon smiles, bright white. 

He says, Sounds like Lassie better run on home. You're late for breakfast.

 

\--

 

you are alone  
you are alone  
you are alone

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Rule No. 11:** Don't act like you're not invited. Just because you stop thinking doesn't mean time stops turning. The carpets are out, the cathedrals are on fire. There's even lights in the trees. 

Don't worry, I'll wait for you. Just stop _whining._

 

\--

 

Five months ago, Sam and John killed a crossroads demon. On their way to the road, Sam asked, Did you get everything you needed from the witch?

John said, ever garrulous, Yes.

Have you ever met in person? Sam asks.

Not since I've been with you, John says. He says, Sam, she knows how to do her job. Don't worry.

So Sam worries. Not about the demon--nor the next one, nor the ghosts that follow. He worries, and he stays--Heaven help him, he stays. Because if his father wants to kill him, first he's going to have to escape Sam's watch.

They end up on the docks in Duluth, Meg sharing space with Sam's body, and John with his gun out. He can't shoot.

This should mean Sam's safe. It should mean he's going to be okay. It should mean that he and John, father and son, are in this together. But all Sam can think is, that's why.

That's why it has to be poison.

John needs to kill him but he doesn't want to watch.

He and John ride this brinkmanship all the way to Bobby's; and even with Meg gone, the feeling doesn't fade. 

_Breakfast at Tiffany's_ is playing again. The tape is wearing out.

(Bobby, again? Sam asks, and Bobby shrugs. He says, One of Dean's favorites. I dunno.)

They leave the salvage yard in the strong black embrace of the Impala, newly revived.

Sam tries to love her, and doesn't.

She's back on the road, but all that means is she's not Dean's car anymore.

 

\--

 

The rest of the five months happen in snapshots. Now that Sam has the comparison, it's not unlike possession. He can't let John out of his sight. He can't let John's hands out of his sight.

Yet somehow, Sam's the one who feels watched.

It's bleeding him, he knows. He's seen himself in mirrors. His nails split like there's someone dragging a knife down their wrists. Even in the warm and forgiving light of Werewolf Madison's master vanity, he hadn't looked well.

He loses time and place because all he can do is watch for John's hands.

They end up in Hollywood, hash smoke and carnival mirrors, hunting vengeful ghosts. Santa Monica, the end of the Mother Road, is a stone's throw away, and something about Los Angeles just feels final. Sam breathes deep the smog. LA can jam a hundred rows of palm trees into the pavement, but that doesn't make it any less a pyre. All he can think is, _I deserve this._

It's not even that he deserves to die; were that true, he'd have died a six-month old. No, Sam deserves to be teased. And tested.

He deserves the flutter in his heart every time John dips out of sight. Every time he doesn't, and Sam feels watched. He deserves every miserable day John doesn't so much as look at him funny, because it doesn't feel like comfort, or relief. Sam just feels stupid.

He deserves this.

 

\--

 

Where have you been? asks Ellen, when they shuffle through the door. They made it to Nebraska, then. It's not happy hour this time.

The roadhouse is empty.

She glances pointedly at Sam; or rather, she sees in him his failure to keep promises.

Like father, like son.

Headed to Arkansas, says John, which is not an answer.

We've been in California for a while, Sam supplies.

See any of your friends? Ellen asks. When Sam replies in the negative, she glances at Jo.

Cured a werewolf, says John, which earns him twinned looks of skepticism.

Maybe, says Sam. If he sounds sullen and petulant, so be it. It's been a long drive.

He says, We didn't stay to check.

That sounds thorough, says Ellen.

Yeah, well maybe he'll send me and Dean to tie up loose ends, Sam mutters.

John pretends not to have heard.

So Jo says, Well, I guess if you're passing through, we should get you set up quick. Shower tokens are by the bar like usual--left side has better pressure now, by the way, but I fixed 'em so they're both okay. And Sam, I assume you'll be needing a bed?

She's surprised when Sam says no; Sam can tell. But he keeps having more-- _dreams_ , nightmares, visions, whatever, and that demon already came for him once and he just--he's not even sure if he's trying to save the Roadhouse or himself when he says no. Either his bunkmates will want him dead or Sam will get them killed. It's lose-lose. So Sam says no.

Did you--want to sleep with me? Jo asks tentatively.

On the floor, I mean. In a sleeping bag. Not _with_ me with me.

Sam smiles thinly.

No.

The Impala will be fine. They have to get an early start, anyway. He and John will both sleep in the Impala.

Ellen shrugs. She says, Saves Jo a load of laundry, I suppose. Suit yourself.

Then she says, Oh, Sam! There's actually a box of coffee filters in the store room. Last freeloader rolling through put it up too high. You wanna give me a hand and get it down?

Sam nods, and Ellen takes him gruffly by the arm as she leads him to the back.

Jo, honey, shut the door behind us will you? You know the draft costs us a fortune in electric, she says.

The last thing Sam sees as he watches the door close behind them is John settling down at the bar for a nice, long chat with Jo. He's not stupid.

Arkansas in a hurry, huh? Ellen ventures, as they descend the basement steps.

You know how John is, says Sam.

You doin' okay? Ellen asks.

Sam sniffs noncommittally. Sure, he says.

'Cause I know you're not, says Ellen. Look, I'm not your blood, and I'm not your mom, but anyone with eyes could tell you that's not true.

Sam shrugs. Stresses of the job, you know? It's been sort of non-stop. But I think it helps--you know? It keeps my mind off certain things.

It's just that those certain things aren't death, murder, filicide, or his own slow but apparently inevitable defection to the dark side. And they usually aren't even Dean. Coffee filters probably make the list, though. Working with John, Sam almost never has to think about coffee filters.

Do you want out, Sam? Ellen asks.

God, yes. He wants out so bad sometimes he wishes John _would_ poison him. But there's nowhere to run and no one to go to. He'd thought maybe the roadhouse but the moment they walked through that door he knew that wasn't gonna fly. There are too many hunters here, there's too much tension, and too much history. And if it's his father Sam's running from, the roadhouse isn't far enough.

I can handle this, Sam promises. His eyes feel raw and he knows his hair looks like shit but he does his best to look like someone Ellen can trust.

Ellen puts a hand on his elbow. She says, It's okay to need other people, Sam.

And oh, Sam knows. He knows he can't do this alone, and that's the problem. It used to be, he could--he could do fucking anything. But now he's not sure; he's up against too much, or lost too much, or he's just too fucking empty and it's not at all like Gordon said. Sam's emptiness doesn't keep him hungry or vengeful; it's eating him alive. Swallowing him whole.

I can't do this without him, Sam admits, and feels weak, and hypocritical, and trapped.

He's not just watching John; he fucking needs him.

For Yellow-Eyes, he says. Ellen, without him, I can't--

What's in Arkansas? Ellen asks.

And Sam says, Prison. 

Ellen laughs. She says, Sam, I can't tell if you're trying to talk me into believing you, or smacking you.

Sam tries not to cry.

Suddenly, Ellen has her arms around him. 

She says, Me and Jo are in your corner, okay? So you let us know when there's anything we can do.

Sam nods, and wishes they could stay this way forever, someplace quiet and snug and Ellen. But part of him can't help but wonder if this is really just Ellen's way of saying that he's on his own. That if he's gonna choose to ride with John, then he's burning his own bridges.

Sam knows as well as Ellen that the roadhouse cannot help him. 

Not the way he needs.

 

\--

 

you are alone  
you are alone  
you are alone

 

 

John sleeps effortlessly, the way Dean used to. Like a switch just turns in his head. The major difference being, of course, that John wakes that way as well--automatic and sudden. Dean had never mastered that, not even a little. Honestly, Dean's inability to wake up at any remotely normal hour without an extreme amount of assistance had been one of Sam's most consistent sources of aggravation. 

Once upon a time.

Johns voice through his head, _Dean never woke up_ , turns Sam's stomach and keeps him vigilant. Wakeful.

He wonders if it would have been different--if Sam woke up one morning and Dean in the bed beside him was dead in his sleep. If Dean's never waking had actually been as peaceful as that made it sound. Would it have been different if Sam hadn't known, in medically technical detail, the puree Dean's organs had been? If he hadn't seen the blood? If Sam hadn't known about the reaper, chasing his brother down? If he hadn't imagined Dean running, running, and losing?

Sam imagines Dean waking to find _him_ dead, quietly poisoned in the night, and he figures that no, it'd probably be the same.

There's no escaping how this feels.

If John kills him, it won't be a good death. It won't be peaceful. All it'll mean is that they'll probably both end up in Hell. Sam for his visions and John for having the gall to try and end them.

You know, Sam thinks. You said you'd haunt me if anything happened to this car.

I don't know if you can feel what I feel, Dean, but I don't think this gets more wrong.

Because Sam's fucking terrified. And in no uncertain terms will he be falling asleep--not with the promise of nightmares, not for the potential of John becoming one.

And this is supposed to be home.


	9. Chapter 9

You promised you'd haunt me, Sam accuses, his first night in prison. It's a favor to John's friend Deacon and apparently it's important, but if Sam felt isolated out in the real world, he feels absolutely fucked in here.

Haunt me, Dean, he whispers, glaring at the ceiling. Forget what he said about Heaven, or at least Dean needing it. He needs Dean. He needs him now.

_You promised._

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 12:** Don't act like you've never gotten what you've wished for.

 

\--

 

Prison is dull. At least in Baltimore, they'd only been in jail, and it had been for less than forty-eight hours. They hadn't even been formally charged. 

Prison, though: They've been at Green River almost three weeks, and Sam's beginning to think he actually belongs here. That this is John's endgame. Baltimore was a practice run, Sam had failed, and now John is going to leave him here to rot; because if your son's going to go dark side, at least you can kill him with a prison riot. 

So Sam is quiet. He keeps to himself, and he doesn't start trouble. John doesn't speak to him; he runs this case like he's been running the rest of them lately--solo, unless he needs the backup. Sam wonders what had been so wildly different about the vampires back at Elkins' place, with the Colt; but maybe they hadn't been. And in any case, John looks at Sam differently now. It's an illegible sort of difference, the way things always are with John, but Sam's got private access some fairly damning context clues.

Sam is here as a prisoner, not a hunter. So he eats his slop, he jogs the perimeter when they're in the yard, he does push-ups in his cell until his arms fall off, and he tries to think as little as possible. If he spends enough time on automatic, even the nightmares forget about him. He builds his mind a rubber room. 

And the thing is, he probably does belong here. If he didn't in Baltimore, he sure does now. He has visions. He has urges. This is probably the best thing that could have happened to him, because now he can forget himself in full. On the road, he'd tried, and managed possession--finicky and punched through with retaliation. In here, it's complete surrender. It's consensual. 

But every so often, John still comes around to slash his tires.

You need to find someone who's spent time in the old cell block, he'll say as he passes Sam at breakfast.

And because Sam's brain will jump at the puzzle regardless of Sam's desires, he'll have to remember how the world works all over again. 

He'd planned to go run in circles this afternoon; instead he ends up shooting the shit with Randall on his work shift. It turns out Randall's real familiar with the old cell block.

So what're you in for? Randall asks, to even the push-pull of the conversation. He doesn't give a shit about Sam, but he doesn't give info for free.

My father's trying to kill me, says Sam. Because if you're already in prison, why lie?

You try to kill him back?

Not yet, says Sam.

Randall sighs. He says, Speaking as someone who's logged some time with the law books in the library, you probably don't want to phrase it like that.

If you were to tell Sam two years ago he'd be receiving legal counsel from a career criminal--or maybe just a career inmate, Sam's not sure what Randall's raps even are--he'd have laughed in your face. And he'd have honestly thought you were funny.

Thanks for the tip, Sam replies.

I mean, not that I'd blame you, Randall says as he jabs his mop into a far corner beneath the sinks. Your daddy's a hard one to read, that's for damn sure.

How do you even know who he is? Sam asks.

Randall just laughs. Who doesn't? He's been parading it all over camp. Why do you think no one's come to twist you? No offense, but people like you are turkey dinner to half the guys in here--and I don't care how you got all those scars. Maybe you're tall, but you're out of your weight class, pal.

You mean he's protecting me?

Randall shrugs. I'm not much for kittens and roses. My two cents? You two're still a horror story waiting to happen. Big bloody one.

Fuck you, says Sam.

This isn't a horror story. Sam's brother's dead and his father's trying to kill him. That's not horror; that's a soundbyte from the world's most depressing episode of Jerry Springer. 

Sam rests his chin on his mop and bites his lip.

I'm serious. It's a fucking horror story, Randall insists. I seen your daddy; that man loves you more than anything. Yet here you are.

Here Sam is.

Thing is, I'm really not sure what he's planning to do with all those matches, Randall continues. But if you want my advice: Sleep naked.

What? asks Sam.

Randall regards him bemusedly, as though he's just now accepting that Sam really is the clean-shaven, well-scrubbed, college-educated, softie that Sam both is and definitely isn't. Right now he is, though.

What do you mean? Sam repeats, more urgently.

Randall cracks his neck. 

I'm just saying--jumpsuit's polyester. It ain't pretty when it burns.

Sam must make a face, which Randall interprets as confusion. Randall looks him up and down.

That shit melts right into your skin, he says. And boy, it really ain't pretty.

 

\--

 

Not even on you.

 

\--

 

He's screaming. He can smell his own flesh burning--his chest, over his heart. But he can feel fire in his eyes as well, at the back of his throat, leaking through him. Fire from the inside out.

Dean's there, and Sam tries to cry out for him, but his mouth his not his own. And there are too many people holding him down.

Dean meets his eyes for a moment, like maybe he's going to save him from this. Then he walks away.

He has the decency, at least, to look sad about it.

Some part of Sam thinks, viciously, _oh? you wanted a haunting?_

 

\--

 

I'll show you a haunting.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

They're still in Arkansas, though not in prison anymore. This time, Sam doesn't hesitate. He's not sure if he's just woken from a vision or an honest nightmare, but the second he watched Dean walk away from him it's like something snaps inside him. He needs to get out, and he needs to get in front of this shit before Ash, before John, before the demon itself if he can help it.

And he does not care how much noise the Impala makes as he peels away. Let them know, and let them come.

Sam will raise an army.

He will.

But when he hits Nebraska, he keeps running. Doesn't stop for the roadhouse. He sweeps the Dakotas until he starts listing east through Fargo.

And yeah, Sam's got nothing. No army. No plan. Just visions. Visions of futures that will never be, no less; because Dean is gone and the Dean he knows would never let him burn like that.

Never.

Sam just needs to know what's happening to him. And the only thing he can think of, near a thousand miles later, is that the visions might have provenances. Or at least signatures. Some way of knowing who they're from, or what they're made of. What the demon did to him.

There must be someone who knows how to read those. 

Immediately, he thinks of Missouri--Missouri in Kansas. But he can't face her without Dean, can't face Lawrence. He doesn't want to be with anyone who can see the empty space beside him, and know it for what it is.

Then maybe you shouldn't be trusting psychics, wheedles a voice at the back of his mind.

Or your father's friends.

But Sam doesn't know anyone John doesn't know--not anyone who can help. So he chooses the next best thing.

Bobby, he says, into a pay phone in Shakopee. Sam has this crazy notion that John knows every number that comes in and out of Sam's cell. Somehow, John knows.

I was just thinking about your brother, says Bobby, no niceties. The word--brother--shoves them out. 

Would someone take a half-second and think about me? Sam thinks venomously. That's not fair--not to Bobby, and certainly not to Dean--but then, life isn't. Sam would know.

That's nice, says Sam. He says, Bobby, I need a psychic.

Five minutes later Sam has one last name and one more burning bridge behind him. He knows Bobby's burnt about Dean--how Sam didn't ask, didn't care, didn't cry.

He's his father's son, Sam imagines Bobby muttering as he stares daggers at the receiver. 

Sam's always been his father's son.

Fuck you, Sam thinks bitterly. Grief works in mysterious ways. Especially when (Dean watching

just watching him burn)--

 

\--

 

But the Impala starts making a strange noise when Sam hits honest-to-god I-40, because of course the only psychic Bobby knows is in Arizona, when Sam's practically north of Canada. He's beginning to wonder whether Bobby isn't fucking with him.

I'm sorry, Sam says to the car, bitter no longer--just yearning.

I'm sorry.  
I'm so sorry.

 

\--

 

Sam plays Motörhead two thousand miles in a row.

He knows he's not being haunted, not really. It's too hot and the radio works just fine and he knows, he knows, that Dean is dead, real dead. He might has well have watched the reaper take him. But he also doesn't have anyone else to talk to. It's almost fun.

And it helps him forget--the smell of his flesh, the heat in his eyes, the clop of Dean walking, walking away.

Besides, he was wrong earlier--she will always be Dean's.

 

\--

 

Dean would smile, if he knew she'd survived. Even if he hadn't been as lucky.

 

\--

 

Pamela has Sedona written all over her--and she makes good money like that, she admits. But give her the rock and the crag over magic vortices any day. When she's tired of moonstones she hitches rides up north.

You wouldn't believe what you can get into at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, Pamela confides, waggling her eyebrows. Eighteen miles out, high desert, no tour groups.

I've never been, says Sam.

Okay, let's get right to business, Pamela agrees. She squeezes his knee.

You have--

Dreams, Sam says. Visions, maybe.

We'll go with dreams, says Pamela. Sam, I can tell you're no witch.

And yet, it's too easy to imagine himself burned at the stake. Sam can imagine his hands bound, his wrists bloody. Palms, too, for good measure, for imagery--though of course everyone knows you nail at the wrist. He imagines shadows just outside the firelight. 

He'll recognize John's boots, he's sure.

And who else? Sam thinks wildly. Will Bobby be there, with the yarrow? Deacon? Ellen? Jo?

Dean?

Sam, Pamela interrupts, bringing him back. Her voice is low like she's speaking to the dead.

Sam, I'm going to need you to trust me.

Suddenly Sam's back in Dr. Ellicot's office; it's January, Dean's birthday, and Sam is about to shoot him. Forty-seven tiny rock salt scars and bruising that nearly gets him--because a few days later they're on another hunt and they have to run. Hard. But first, Sam's in that office and the Doctor says, Sam, I'm going to need you to trust me. Sam, let's talk about your brother.

Sam, says Pamela, this is lavender. And it's going to calm you down.

 

\--

 

This is how he'll go. He won't feel a thing. He won't be able to move.

And still, he'll know he's dying.

 

\--

 

_If you think this ends with me, Sam, you're so very wrong. I'm gonna make you big and strong and trust me, it's not 'cause I like show ponies. You're headed for someone else's stables: Think higher, birthday boy! Much._

_Much._

_Higher._

_I'm not the one who makes the rules. And you're better and stronger than you think._

 

\--

 

There's a man on a hill.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

When Sam opens his eyes, there's down fluff from a dreamcatcher, blurry on his nose. There's red rock out the window. And Pamela's nursing a beer.

You drink? she asks, and gestures to the mini fridge.

What do you know? What did you find? Sam asks. _How much of that did you see?_

But Pamela says she hasn't started yet. 

She says, You looked like you needed the sleep. I'm not going to touch you until you're ready for me.

But did I dream? Sam asks. 

Pamela shrugs. I dunno. I left you alone. I think it's weird to watch people sleep. So I did some shopping, got my nails done. By the way, your father called.

Sam sits up so quick he nearly puts a dreamcatcher through his forehead.

Easy, tiger. I told him I don't do phone readings. 

Do you eat?

Sam must look like he's about to flip his shit, because of course he eats, he's not a monster he's not a monster he's not a monster, because Pamela revises: 

I meant, are you hungry? I'm not much of a cook, but I do a mean candlelit Clif Bar.

 

\--

 

It's pasta, actually; angel-hair. And olive oil. A sprig of basil. Tiny cherry tomatoes.

Some bitch paid me for a reading in tomatoes. Can you believe that? asks Pamela. She shouts, Fuck tomatoes!

Sam smiles.

Sam eats carefully and then voraciously; and with every bite and every catty glance Pamela sneaks him in the candlelight, over the rim of her second beer, he thinks less and less about the food turning to chains in his gut. (He's read about that happening. It's a thing.)

Why are you helping me? Sam asks.

Oh, I haven't helped you yet. I gave you a place to crash and a bowl of carbs. That's barely Couchsurfer levels of hospitality, and that shit's free.

Why are you helping me? Sam repeats. He can no longer afford to suffer unanswered questions.

Because you walked in that door and I knew instantly that I liked you, Sam. 

(And not just because of your pert little ass. I noticed that later!)

Sam nods slowly.

He tastes his food going down.

He feels the water, cool down his body, in Pamela's shower.

He smells monsoon rain through her open window.

He sleeps.

He feels safe, and cared for. 

He didn't think he'd ever feel that way again.

Thank you, says Sam, when he awakes again and Pamela is, apparently, filing her taxes. She sets them aside and sees the look in his eyes and knows that now, he is ready; the time has come.

You have no idea how much this means to me. Like, no idea, says Sam. 

You do still have to pay me, Pamela reminds him. So think about what this is really worth to you. I take all currencies but tomatoes.

Sam finger's Dean's amulet in his pocket and thinks about what this reading might seriously have at stake.

Dean would give it in a heartbeat, if it meant saving Sam.

Dean would give his skin, his blood, and his first-born.

Sam's not sure what Sam would do to save Sam.

 

\---

 

This is a very powerful charm, says Pamela, uncertainly. 

What's it do? Sam asks, because he's always wondered. It clearly doesn't spare lives, or grant wishes. It speaks to no dead.

I mean, nothing, probably, says Pamela. It's about what it's done, not what it will do.

Pamela sits Sam down on a small button pillow on the floor. She presses her palms to his temples, testing the waters.

You loved him, didn't you? Pamela asks. That's what I feel in that charm; it's about your love for each other.

More than anything, says Sam.

I wouldn't waste that word on anything less, says Pamela.

There you go, she says, as Sam's brow unfurrows. 

There you go.

There you go.

One last question: Are you sure this is what you want to give?

Sam says, I have nothing else of value.

Pamela sighs. She says, Sam, I let a woman pay me in tomatoes.

Sam says, I have nothing else.

Okay, Sam, says Pamela. 

Then let's make sure this is worth your while.

 

\--

 

 **Rule No. 13:** Don't underpay the help. There but for the Grace of me go...


	12. Chapter 12

When Sam wakes, he sees hair caught under a splinter of Pamela's floor. He's lying in a puddle of his own drool. He smells something burning.

Apparently, Pamela hadn't lied when she said she wasn't much of a cook.

She doesn't say anything as Sam stirs awake, and he doesn't hear her in the kitchen. He imagines her outside--smoke break, personalized Zippo. It's just now sunrise; and maybe she's a sunrise kind of person. Desert sublime, and all that.

Then Sam lifts his head from the floor and finds her foot, oddly canted, in his peripheral vision.

Then her legs, splayed.

Fingers, tree-like.

Eyes burnt out.


	13. Chapter 13

 

...But for the grace of _me_ go eyeballs.


	14. Chapter 14

what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you donewhathaveyoudonewhathave you donewhathaveyoudone

Who are you, Sam Winchester?

 

\--

 

What are you, that one snatch of your mind could do that to a woman?

What are you?

 

\--

 

What have you done?

 

\--

 

And why don't you ever listen to me?


	15. Chapter 15

It does not seem appropriate to burn her further. At least, not yet.

Sam can't help her form, but he drags her board-stiff to the bed and puts coins over her empty eyes. Tomatoes in her mouth. Dean's necklace against her throat. She's pale on the bottom and pooling purple most places else.

At some point before noon, she begins to smell like shit and her orifices pus red-orange.

The Grand Canyon, he thinks. North Rim, where there are no fences.

But you can't just throw a body off the face of the Grand Canyon, even on the north side. People will notice. When Sam wakes up the next morning, seasoned with day-old putrefaction and head stuffy from crying, he knows what he has to do.

He finds a pack and a hand saw.

 

\--

 

 _went to the Grand Canyon_ , Sam texts Bobby.

No response.

 _went to the Grand Canyon_ , Sam texts Jo.

 _went to the Grand Canyon_ , Sam texts Dean's old cell.

Madison, he calls.

Ellen.

Even Gordon.

 _went to the Grand Canyon_ , Sam texts John Winchester.

 _again?_ John texts back.

Sam calls. 

Don't lie to me, he shouts, and hangs up.


	16. Chapter 16

He is camping. At least, that's one way to put it. 

He is walking.

The Impala, or whatever ether moves her, died about five miles back. The lone truck behind him had pulled over too, stuttered to a halt, and out popped three brown men who spoke no English. They wanted to help.

No, said Sam. He was covered in dirt and red sand, and he smelled like death and sweat.

He showed them the dirt. Still, they wanted to help.

He showed them the blood.

They didn't shy.

I can't be helped, shouted Sam. ¡No--puedo--ayudame!

He wasn't sure if that was correct. He hoped it was enough.

He really didn't want to have to show them the saw, still sticky with fresh wet bone.

 _Señor ayudame, no puedo mas, no puedo seguir asi,_ answered one of the men, nodding fervently. 

A recitation.

So Sam just started walking. Threw up his hands and marched away. Away from the Impala, away from the men--out into the dark. If the men got back into their truck, they never passed him. Perhaps they knew better than to cross strange things at night.

Sam walks.

At three o'clock in the morning, Sam spots something up ahead--a lurking shape in the darkness.

It's the Impala.

Sam turns to the flat darkness behind him. Then back to her, and beyond. The road doesn't twist. And if Sam knows one thing, it's that the road to Phoenix is long, and empty, and arrow straight.

It occurs to Sam then that the three men may not have been men. What they were, he couldn't say, but perhaps they recognized him as one of their own, and let him be.

When Sam gets inside the Impala, she's still dead and silent. Reproachful.

You know, don't you, he says to her. He runs his bloody fingers across her dashboard and she shocks him.

Dean knows.

 

\--

 

He is camping. That's why he's out in the desert, alone without Dean.

Dean hates camping.

Sam curls up in the front seat of the Impala.

Then he jumps out, slams the door, and gets in the back.

He is camping.

Sam jumps out of the car again, stumbles to the trunk. Pulls the ouija board from the far, far back. It's sticky with Sam's not sure what.

But there's too many spirits awake on this highway tonight. There's no chance in Heaven or Earth Sam will be able to speak with one who isn't.

Sam lets the planchette wander freely, board balanced on his chest. 

There are so, so many ghosts out here tonight.

Letter by letter, the highway sings him silent Bible lines and hymns.

 

\--

 

Dean, I don't know how to fix her, Sam whispers into the upholstery. 

I don't know how to fix any of this.

Dean, if you don't help me, I'm going to have to walk.

Dean, I'm sorry.

Sam's arms ache with the motion of the saw, and his ears buzz with the sound of it. His calves burn. The back of his neck is red, and so are the tips of his ears.

If he sits up, he can imagine Dean beside him, hand on his shoulder. Dean's never known quite how to offer comfort; but lucky for him, just his touch feels good.

Sammy, Sam mouths, brings Dean to life. 

Sammy, I'm gonna need you to keep fighting. You need to get through this.

 _I would do_ anything _to get you through this, Sam._

Sam, I need you to do whatever it takes.

Sam laughs, and chokes. He asks, What could I do to get you to change your mind?

Dean laughs, too.

He says, Don't get me started.

 

\--

 

Sam tries the Impala again, but she stays silent and still. So Sam gets in the back and he promises himself he'll rest. He will sleep, and sleep soundly.

 

\--

 

Fuckwit.

 

\--

 

This is a vision. It just has that usual feel. And that's Dean in front him, flesh-and-blood Dean--not just Sam's wishful thinking. If Sam had wished Dean here, he wouldn't have that look on his face. His hands would not be fists.

This is a vision, and Sam thinks to himself, _Oh god. What have you done now?_ Because this is either Sam killing Dean, or Dean leaving him; or maybe it's both. Maybe this is the end of the arc, where two rays collide.

Where everything comes full circle.

Dean looks like he's been dead for ten months. Not decomposing, Sam should clarify. He's just not Sam's brother anymore.

There's a cut by Dean's eye. It might scar, but probably not.

He's standing in a room so gaudily rich Sam actually can't imagine Dean there. In this sense, he's already in a state of crisis before Dean says a single word.

Dean in his dream takes a deep dead breath.

I'm worried about you, says Dean.

I know, says Sam.

I just want you to be okay, says Dean.

I'm trying, says Sam.

She's poison, says Dean.

I-- says Sam.

I actually don't know what you're talking about, says Sam.

Dean looks done. Like April last year when it swept him up and put him out.

He says, Sam.

Sam.

_If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you._

 

\--

 

Sam pleads, I need you. This isn't how this is supposed to go. We were just starting to be brothers again; this isn't how this is supposed to go this isn't how this is supposed to go 

this isn't how this _goes_

 

\--

 

_Sam._

_Sam._

_Sam, if I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you._

 

\--

 

If highway patrol finds him, they will say it was dehydration that got him. But they'll probably do an autopsy anyway, to make sure it wasn't drugs--especially when they find what's in the trunk. The gluey bone dust on that saw. The gun from 1835.

And then maybe they won't say anything, because they will cut into Sam's brain and whatever's inside will sear their eyes out.

Sam heaves half his body weight up his throat and into the desert.

The other half of him breaks through his pores, quivering sweat.

Dean's mouth moves before him, caught by repetition, snagged in memory. He flashes again and again and again, and his body loses form, bleeds to whiteness and blot. The words crackle like a letter on fire, or a record scratched. But they do not stop. They do not change.

Sam imagines the driver-side door slamming, and Dean around the Impala like this is a steeplechase. Dean's hand cupping the back of his neck, the other supporting his chest. Dean pushes Sam upright so he can catch air before another round of bile in dust.

Sam, he says.

Sam.

It's like a countdown--three strikes.

Sam ends up back to the ground and breath to the sky, the Impala looming dizzily at his feet.

Dean comes at him with a hammer.

Sam feels white light behind his eyes.

Dean comes at him with his fists, and his fists, and his fists.

Then Dean's face is a sloppy mess, bones shaken from their foundations. His body flattens against the Impala, and Sam knows exactly how solid their girl is. Hers are not the bones that are going to break.

 

\--

 

_If I didn't know you--_

 

\--

 

These are not visions, Sam promises himself. This would not have been the future.

It's not.

 

\--

 

_It's like I don't even know you._

 

\--

 

They're standing in front of a funeral pyre. Dean's, Sam assumes--it's the only one Sam knows. The body seems small, but all bodies seem small when they're burning.

 _It should be you up there_ , Dean spits.

At first, Sam wants to agree. If that's what would make Dean happy.

Instead he asks, Did I do this to you?

Was it the ouija?

The amulet?

Was it that fucking spell? (The one that never was. With the oil, the herbs, and the candles.)

How could I possibly fucking lose you too? Sam asks.

But Dean is a vision, not a confidante. Visions can't listen; they only proceed, like small untouchable fates. In this one, Dean strays from the fire and Sam is alone.

 

\--

 

He is well and truly alone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Rule No. 14:** Well, let's hear it, Sam. What's your Number 14? Share with the class.

 

\--

 

Sam doesn't even have to cock the gun.

Nora, he says, when he walks in the door. The shops is as he'd seen it.

Who are you? says Nora. She sees his gun and says, the way Sam knew she would, _Stop, my kid's in the back._

And what's more sacred than a parent and their child?

Nora, says Sam.

Nora, we need to talk.

 

\--

 

_So tell me. Did you think if things went different, you'd be happy? How many times are you gonna make that mistake?_

_You knew you were always gonna end up here._

_You were always gonna be alone._


	18. Chapter 18

You look parched, says John. He slides a glass of water across the table.

I just walked across the desert, Sam replies.

John's eyes crinkle. Of course, he says. Out of Egypt.

Sam's face is lime and plaster.

I'm glad you wanted to meet me here, John says. He doesn't mean thank you.

He says, We need to talk. But first you should eat. Check out that menu, kiddo; I'm gonna hit the head.

Sam's eyes wanders down to his plate, where his hands are folded atop a plastic menu. His fingernails are black, the blood's still tight on his skin, and the canyon dust has found every crease. He smells like vomit and fear. He's twenty-three, and not John's kiddo.

Sam puts his hands in his lap.

The menu, now smudged, reads _Breakfast at Tiffany's._

John probably doesn't catch the reference, nor the repetition; Sam's pretty sure his father has missed every movie after 1908. And it had always been sort of a secret, anyway--Dean liking it.

But like most of Dean's secrets, it was poorly kept.

_it makes you a monster_

_I'd hunt you_

_if that's what it takes to save you_

_I'd hunt you_

_she is poison_

_she is poison_

_she is poison_

Refill? chirps the waitress, brightly. 

Sam looks down at his now-empty glass and nods.

And more coffee for your sponsor? she asks.

I'm sorry, she adds immediately. I'm sorry. I didn't meant to assume. I just--my brother. He--

Lady, Sam sighs. I don't care about your brother. Mine's dead.

He jerks John's empty coffee mug toward her steaming pot, and watches his sour reflection in the ripples as it fills.

The girl doesn't say anything else.

 

\--

 

Swing like a pendulum, little swing vote. But why wait? You can tell the _future_ , Sam; you have to know it would have been only a matter of time.

No one can help you. Not even your own--

 

\--

 

Thirsty? John asks, eyeing Sam's water glass, now twice-empty.

I walked through the desert, says Sam.

John sits back down and drains his scalding coffee, black.

Is it bitter? Sam asks.

John shrugs. No more than usual. Then he says, I forgot. You like yours with sugar and cream.

I feel like that's how you get the most bang for your buck, Sam agrees tepidly.

John laughs. Then he looks sad, and tired. He says, Sam, we need to talk. He says, You like pancakes, right? How 'bout you get yourself a stack? Nice tall one.

Sam says, Start talking.

Just order the pancakes, John barks. I'm trying to do something good for you.

 _Pancakes,_ Sam states, incredulous.

I'm doing what's best, says John. But he drops the pretense of brunch.

He places a vial on the table between them.

He nods at Sam's water glass.

I'm doing what's best, John says again. He looks, somehow, deeply apologetic and entirely self-righteous.

Sam's not sure what John expected he would do--cry, rage, maybe fight, or drop dead quiet--but Sam doesn't do any of those things. He says:

You couldn't even bear watch me drink it, could you.

He says, You bastard.

Lint lodges beneath Sam's ragged nails as he quests in this pocket. Then he pulls out an identical vial. 

They standoff like chess pieces.

John's gaze flits to the bottom of his empty cup.

The family business, right? says Sam. 

I mean, I learned from the best.

Sam, says John. 

Sam.

 

\--

 

Dean leers at him. Shouts, _Sam! Let's finish this game!_

Not you, too, Sam thinks desperately.

 _Dean, this isn't you._

But of course it isn't; none of them are. 

Dean's dead.

 

\--

 

Sam doesn't wait for strike three. He doesn't wait for apologies or curses, antidotes or secrets. He doesn't want to watch his kill, and he doesn't want confession. He doesn't need last words. He walks out that door and he doesn't look back. 

Outside there's rainbows in the sky and it smells like fresh-cut grass and asphalt alive with monsoon rain. Sam picks a direction.

If he's not dead before he hits state lines, then John was right about everything.


	19. Chapter 19

 

 

 

 

He always is.

 

 

 

 

"I'm gonna be the one who buries you!" 

( 1x21 "Salvation")


End file.
